


Breaking Lines

by fenrjswolf



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt, I'm Sorry, M/M, idk how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenrjswolf/pseuds/fenrjswolf
Summary: One thought circles his mind in a loop at a million miles an hour and if he doesn't get rid of it he might actually make it real, so Murphy instead says: "I really wanna punch you."





	Breaking Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueparacosm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/gifts).



It is late in the night when the fire goes from actual flames to mere logs smoldering softly, the embers eating away at the wood like squirrels munching on their secret stock. Murphy has had one or two or five cups of moonshine too many and ever since Clarke had shaken her head at him and gone to bed, he has been pleasantly existing on the verge between waking and sleeping, the cozy drift on the barely perceptible line of too drunk and just exactly the right amount of moonshine.    
  
They've been sitting around the fireplace all night, leaning against the bark of a fallen tree. The tree’s wood would crumble under their fingertips, should they touch it, that's how long it had been lying there, rotting, succumbing to nature feeding off of its corpse and returning to the cycle of nature.    
  
The number of voices filling the space between the tents and the trees up to the brim had slowly receded over time as the hours had idly trickled past and every now and then another delinquent had decided to go to sleep. So now it was just the ashes and embers, logs of half burnt wood, black on the outside, glowing from the inside like there was a whole world inside of them - just the ashes and the embers and John Murphy and Bellamy Blake sitting right next to each other, bare hands blood red, stardust in their bones and charcoal in their eyes.   
  
Bellamy nudges his way into Murphy's personal space, rests their knees against each other and drawls out his name like he's tasting every syllable. Murphy's skin shivers and he feels the insides of his skull and the backsides of his eyes prickle. He rubs his eyelids with one hand, thumb and index finger going back and forth but it doesn't help. All he sees is stars and Bellamy Blake, Bellamy Blake and stars, and stars and stars and stars. Maybe he's had too much moonshine after all, like Clarke had suggested with that slight tilt of her head, that frown carved into her forehead. She cared too much about all of them for her own good, and too little about herself; though Murphy was hardly one to judge, with that way he could damage himself by caring too much or caring too little. He never seemed to know the right proportions for feelings, either.   
  
The dying fire still holds on enough to illuminate Bellamy's face in red and orange, warm lights casting cold shadows across his face from his chin, his lips, the tip of his nose. His jaw and neck glow like gold poured into his veins and all Murphy can think is,  _ gods, he's beautiful _ , even with the rings under his eyes, with the way he seems to be burning from the inside. Murphy wants to punch him, wants to knock him in the dirt because of all the ways he can make him  _ feel _ , make him exist in places other than the darkness, self hatred and violence within himself.   
  
One thought circles his mind in a loop at a million miles an hour and if he doesn't get rid of it he might actually make it real, so Murphy instead says: "I really wanna punch you." As he speaks, his fingers tap along the rim of his makeshift cup. The words cut into the silence; one of the logs crashes, falls down onto the glowing heart of the fireplace and cracks the sparks open, which don't seem to mind at all because they jump up into the sky, into freedom all the same. Murphy scrambles for more words but the stash is empty and instead, in his search, he stumbles over the real feeling.    
  
Bellamy is too drunk, too strung out to think of Murphy’s words as an actual threat; it feels more like a vague suggestion that might come back to haunt him in the near future so he only snorts, "maybe you should", and drains his own cup.    
  
"Maybe." Murphy doesn't miss how Bellamy's lips curve into a lazy and drooping smile at that, dopey, almost like he's high. As he witnesses it he chews on his tongue and swallows, dry mouth and chapped lips and his brain searching for words like fingers carding through clear water on a desperate mission for common sense, or at least - words.    
  
Eventually, they reach for the same thought, the same movement on their minds, Murphy can see it in Bellamy’s brown eyes - but he's the one who moves first, pushes his forehead against Bellamy's and grabs him by the collar.    
  
The grip on the jacket is as familiar as the hold he usually has on the cup which now lies forgotten. Only very seldomly does Bellamy allow himself to be like this, usually wrapped in at least five layers of bossy snark and attitude, but when Murphy kisses him it's like all these colors melt right off his bones.     
  
Sometimes it feels like Bellamy is too restless to be a good kisser when he's sober; he's better at shutting his brain off when he's drunk and sloppy, though determined, slow, burning that sweet ache into Murphy's bones. Murphy draws him even closer when that thought crosses his mind, one hand on his waist now to hold him, to remind himself that they're both alive and warm and breathing, solid, hearts pounding and blood flowing, and he puts all his desperation into the kiss so their teeth click and their noses bump together at the force.    
  
"Ya know, we should get drunk more often," Murphy mutters and he’s reached that perfect haze where the words are so easy and light on his tongue it feels like they're tumbling off of it all by themselves, not at all reluctant or falling into the cracks of the conversation where no one can see them, or hear them - but exactly there where the other person can pick them up with sweet and delicate fingers and answer just with the right amount of drunken honesty themselves, their brain-mouth-filter not holding back any content it maybe should and definitely shouldn't.    
  
That smile is still strung across Bellamy's face like with a rope, hanging from ear to ear with a hook, his eyes closed; he grabs Murphy's neck and pushes their mouths back together, planning on kissing him stupid. Murphy has grown so familiar over the past months, the shape of his jaw under Bellamy’s thumb and the slide of Murphy’s tongue and lips over his own; he opens his mouth under the soft pressure and lazy, languid movements, tastes moonshine and whatever the fuck the boy last ate.    
  
Bellamy makes a sound, a soft chuckle that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be a laugh bubbling up in his throat. It's new and makes him vulnerable, and hearing it Murphy feels like his chest is being opened and Bellamy is pouring something gold and orange and glowing inside of it that settles there, and his ribcage is made of carbon and charred black on the outside but glowing from the inside, just like the burnt wood of the bonfire and maybe it is their hearts being offbeat what makes it hurt so much.    
  
When he finally pulls back he tries to carefully not feel anything at all, to keep his heart blank, but Bellamy grinning at him with that dopey, half-lit grin back across his red kissed lips, it breaks his heart all the same. But if it wasn’t love, how could it even break his heart?   


**Author's Note:**

> Hey so I'm a bit insecure about posting my fanfics online bc they're kinda lame so if you'd leave kudos or a comment my heart would probably literally burst
> 
> I decided to gift this work to Jen (blueparacosm) because her works are great and inspired me to write more so go read her stuff it's made from angel hair
> 
> A big thanks goes to my friend Catty for correcting my horrible grammar and stuff i love her


End file.
